Metronome
by saudades
Summary: Pre-RENT. From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Completed.
1. Chapter One

Title: Metronome (Chapter 1/?)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

JUNE 29TH, 1985, 7:16 AM, EST. Mark Cohen.

"You know, Marky, if you tuned into this reality once in a while—and I mean front in front of a lens or whatever, you might actually make some friends."

As is the case every time Cindy speaks—especially when she borrows my mother's phrasing—I ignore every word she says. My mother looks at me in the rearview, obviously hoping I'll take this sage advice to heart. It is too hot—even this early in the day, even this early in the summer—to be fighting, and I refuse to acknowledge that my lifestyle is being trashed—again. The leather seats of our Volvo are sticking to my thighs where my shorts have pulled up, and if we weren't bound for the train station, and thus bound for the train that would deliver me from Scarsdale to 721 Broadway, where my special "Arts Bound!" program begins in a little under two hours, I might cry. But it is, so I shut up and count my blessings. One, no Scarsdale for, like, the next twleve hours. Every day for the next thirteen days. Two, seeing "Mishima"—possibly the most amazing film ever—two nights ago with Jason. Three, not getting caught sneaking back in to "Mishima" the second and third times. Four—

"Now don't kill each other on the train ride in, kids. And Cindy, please make sure your brother gets all the way in the door before you take off. And Mark, for goodness' sake stay with the others, and don't leave until your father comes to pick you up. And don't talk to people, if you insist on taking the subway. And don't—"

For once, Cindy says the right thing. "Mom, you know I'll take good care of him, you know he'll be responsible, and you know you raised us right. We'll all be on the 6:53 train home. We love you. Have a great day." And with that, we are out of the car and gone, gone, gone.

721 Broadway has a cement step and a wood door and it is cold inside—probably because they have nice equipment in here. I think I saw a JVC GR-C1, and I think it might have been love at first sight. I have no idea what propelled these other kids to be "Arts Bound!", but I'm almost hoping it's not film. I want that baby all to myself.

"Please don't tell me you're mooning over a fucking camera." I have no idea who this suave-looking kid is, but he's certainly not shy. "You look like that shit could give you a boner. Damn!"

"Um...have we met?"

"Benjamin Coffin the Third, man," he says, pushing a hand at me. I blink. "But you can call me Benny, I guess." At this we both smile and I take his hand and shake it.  
"Mark Cohen. Are...are you here for film?"

"Nah," he says, turning to let his eyes roam over the room, finally returning them to me. I wonder if we meet the par. "Music production." At my apparent confusion, he continues, tucking one arm up and gesturing professionally with the other. "You know, learning about tracks and layering and recording and all that funky shit. I really love music—I really love a whole shitload of artistic stuff, but I'm really not," and he holds his arm at a forty-five degree angle.

"Leaning?"

"Inclined, stupid. As in, artistically." Oh. Well. Okay.

"You know anybody else here?" Just. Make. Small talk. I wish I were better at this sort of thing. I wonder, fleetingly, if maybe my mother and sister are right, and just the thought of it makes me flip my bangs from my eyes angrily. This is Benny. Benny will be...an acquaintance.

"No, man, I don't. These geeks seem like losers." He turns and sizes me up. "No offense." I think he just insulted me, but I'm not sure, so I just shrug my shoulders. We stand in companionable silence for a minute or two, looking out over the small crowd, listening to the occasional twangs and screeches of untuned instruments. My mind starts to wander, and I wonder if I'll be too cold in shorts in this chilled room. I wonder about the staff for this program, who in large part have failed to show up yet. I wonder about the amount of electricity it takes to power all of that equipment, and I wonder if our costs include the suspected electric bill. I am finally getting around to wondering if our silence has turned awkward when Benny turns to me. "When we get our lunch break, wanna come smoke a little grass?" And I think about saying that I've never smoked and filmed, I think about saying that my dad's coming to get me at the end of the day, I think about saying that I don't know, but then I think about how Benny's offering me something, about how I'd really like to have someone to chill with. About how it would be kind of nice to be fifteen and an artist in the city and make my own decisions about whether I wanted to smoke a little damn pot when I felt like it.

"Maybe," I tell him. He sizes me up again out of the corner of his eye and grins.

"Okay, man," he says.

Okay.


	2. Chapter Two

Title: Metronome (Chapter 2/?)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

SEMPTEMER 8TH, 1991, 1:26 AM, EST. Roger Davis.

There is nothing in the world like a nice long piss after an awesome set. No, decided Roger; actually, there was: a nice long piss after an awesome set in a bar when you were finally twenty-one and didn't fucking care about getting carded. He stared at the bricks in front of him and was glad for this tiny little almost-alley. It didn't even smell as bad as he'd thought it would. Now all he had to do was zip up and manage the poorly-lit walk back into the bar and enjoy all the perks that come from being a rock god who's young and talented and invincible, now that his bladder's empty.

Except that all of a sudden, there was someone breathing in the dark next to him, and some scrawny little Mexican kid was shoving something in his face and whispering "Gimme all your fucking money, _maricon_, or this gets ugly." Roger thought about laughing at the kid, he thought about tackling him—he had him beat by over a foot—and then he thought about where he was, about how CBGB's wasn't in the greatest neighborhood at this time of night, and about how even though this kid was probably just packing air under that sweater, maybe he wasn't. Fuck, thought Roger. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And then, from Roger's other side, the sound of crashing metal cans. Obviously, someone had had a similar idea, but was unable to navigate the exit quite so smoothly. The scent of garbage mingled with the stranger's muttered curses, and when Roger turned back the kid was backing away, looking pretty horrified. The stranger walked right back into the can he had just righted, and swore violently, although Roger thought he sounded more annoyed than aggressive. Whatever the case, Roger's would-be mugger had heard enough, and took off into the jungle of the night. Roger had to laugh aloud.

"Shit," the stranger said, adjusting his glasses before peering at Roger a bit myopically. "Did I interrupt, um, something important? I was just looking for the bathroom and somebody said..."

"Yeah. This is the informal one," Roger agreed, gesturing around him, careful to sidestep his own recent addition to the place. "By the way, you totally just scared off some little fucker who thought he could take my cash and flee. For saving me the trouble of beating the crap out of him, I owe you a drink." Roger grinned, and the stranger suddenly grinned back, animating a face that seemed to be scrutinizing him.

"I'm Mark," he said, holding out his hand. "Did I see you on stage before? With the...um, the really loud band?"

"A fan!" declared Roger. "Well, bless my soul. Maybe we should make it two drinks." He took Mark's hand. "Roger Davis, singer and guitarist with the Well Hungarians. A really loud band." He thought Mark might have blushed a little, but the lighting was really crap out here.

"Well, if you're going to be formal—Mark Cohen, film maker and nuisance-at-large."

"Especially to trash cans," said Roger pointedly, wondering if Mark would blush, wondering how he'd manage to spend the time it took to buy a drink with some kid who blushed all the time. But Mark just grinned defiantly and ran a hand through his hair.

"Yep. They're my specialty." Roger laughed. This was more like it.

"You come here a lot, Mark? I haven't seen you." Mark laughed.

"I'm pretty miss-able, especially to rock stars like yourself. But, no, I'm not here very much. I was supposed to meet some girl here, but then she called and canceled, and I thought I'd just come anyway and see if I could get any good footage, but they made me check my camera at the door, which is total bullshit, by the way."

"Uh-huh."

"Um, and then...I don't know. Do you guys play here a lot?"

Roger shifted his feet. "Not a lot, like a lot a lot, but we've been here a few times. Played a bunch of places—bunch of no-named shitholes in Pittsburgh, before the few remaining members resettled in this fine town. So, yeah, we're around. Around enough for me to know how to piss out back without re-creating that time-honored classic, Dances with Garbage."

Mark smiled. "Don't you, like, owe me a drink, or your first-born, or something? For saving your life?"

"My life? Don't fucking push it, Mark. I was nanoseconds away from making that kid wish he'd stayed on his own side of the border."

"Sure, sure. So just a drink. Shall we?" asked Mark, sweeping his arm grandly towards the door.

"Didn't you wanna...you know?"

"I think," said Mark slowly, "that I'd rather chance it on the real bathroom. Maybe you can teach me the finer points of pissing on a wall after you buy me a drink."

Roger laughed. This kid was okay. Mark held the door for him as they re-entered the raucous, smoky, dim little bar Roger was already falling in love with. Maybe, he considered, if you have someone to go with you, peeing outside is a little less eventful.


	3. Chapter Three

Title: Metronome (Chapter 3/?)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

FEBRUARY 25TH, 1992, 2:19 PM, EST. Tom Collins.

The café is quieter than usual—it's that small, almost indiscernible pause when most of the lunch crew has left and the afternoon coffee-drinkers are about half an hour from coming in. Something you need to have waited tables to know—and therefore something that half of this neighborhood could probably tell you. Well, the ones who aren't dealing or stripping, I suppose. The nice thing about the Life, even if it is up on 10th Street, is that the window seats have an extra padding in the back, as if you're being doubly rewarded for minding your own damn business and watching the living art of the street pass you by in a tsunami of existence. I consider retiring Heidegger for the day; I'm tired of Death and its relationship to being truly alive. There's enough of that in my life, fuck you very much. I just want to drink my coffee and watch that woman across the street winding a scarf around that little boy and—look at this scruffy young man who has dropped unceremoniously into the chair next to me.

"Hey," he says, not only friendly, but downright expectant, like we'd arranged to meet here, like we're old friends. "How're you doing?"

"I'm quite well, thank you," I answer slowly. "Yourself?"

"Oh, great, thanks a load," he says, all in a rush. "Look, my friend and I"—and he gestures across the room to where some kid who doesn't look old enough to have graduated high school seems very involved in filming his own feet—"were just thinking that you look damn familiar, and we wanted to know from where." He shifts inside his worn leather jacket, and smiles at me. It's all so absurd that I momentarily wonder if he's strung out—I have no patience for that shit—but his eyes are too bright and he's smiling at me so cockily I almost have to smirk back at him. God save me from the unsolicited attentions of young straight men. But he moves his head like he's expecting an answer.

"Well, I have to say I don't know. I'm here rather often. Pehaps we've seen each other."

"Nooo..." he says, squinting and smiling, "I don't think that's it. I just know...Hey, Mark!" he yells across the room, and while several heads snap up at his baritone, only one stays up. Camera Boy gives me a weak wave and dutifully walks over to my new unrequested friend, still lugging that camera. "Mark, this is..." and Leather Jacket stops, and looks at me. So much for my quiet afternoon alone.

"Collins. Tom Collins," I say, reaching out a hand. Mark changes hands around the camera and takes mine gratefully, like he's glad I didn't just have them thrown out of here.  
"Mark," he says, pointing to himself, and rolls his eyes towards his companion. "And Roger. A pleasure."

Roger is still grinning like that cat that got the canary, but he focuses on Mark. "It's not from here, right? I feel like it couldn't be from here, we don't even—"

"No, not here." Mark has trained his eye on me. Almost unconsciously, he leans back, and while Roger's manic gaze is a focused, almost-cruising type of eyework, if he weren't so obviously hetero, Mark is looking at me like I am a work of art, like he is seeing everything around me. Like, I suddenly think, feeling a bit silly when I remember the camera, I am a piece of film. "A...a subway, maybe?" He ducks his head a little after he says this, like he's reentered the real world from wherever it is that he just was.

Roger takes back the conversation. "Do you take any trains near here? We could have seen you there." He nods at Mark. "Could be the subway."

I consider. "I suppose I'm on the F a lot. Second Avenue station." And suddenly I'm explaining to them how my boyfriend performs at this unofficial poetry club on Bowery and how I have to get back to Brooklyn some nights and when did I start telling my life story to total strangers? But while Mark smiles and glances out the window, Roger is positively glowing.

"That's it, that's totally fucking it. Mark, you douche, think about it—not only are we on the F all the time to go visit what's-his-fuck on 34th, but I know the place this guy's talking about—it's right across from CBGB's. I play there sometimes," he adds for my benefit, strumming chords on an invisible guitar. Ah, a musician. Now it all makes sense.

"What?" asks Mark, noting my expression. I smile, hold up my book, and indicate the three of us.

"A filmmaker, a musician and a philosopher sit around a table one day, drinking some coffee..." and they both laugh.

"Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke," says Roger.

"Or a bad movie," says Mark, a little ruefully. "Well, this is the neighborhood for it." I nod. "Um, Collins," he says, pronouncing my name like it's got a question mark in it, until I nod and indicate that that is indeed how I prefer to be addressed, "we can stop bothering you now, if you'd like."

"Although," says Roger quickly, "when Mark finishes his goddamn tea, we were thinking about going for Chinese. There's this place on 6th where the egg rolls are only ninety-five cents."

This is ridiculous, but it's also perfect. Steven has been working non-stop for several days, and I will admit to being a little lonely. And depressed, perhaps; a little too caught up in my Heidegger and the news for enough real human contact. And what the hell could it hurt, a little Chinese with these two artists, these two friends. We live in isolating times, I think. A little human contact might do me some good.

"Boys," I say, lifting the rest of my coffee to them before draining it, "to the Alphabet City avant-garde," and Mark grins and Roger's eyes seem even brighter. "Now let's get the fuck out of here."


	4. Chapter Four

Title: Metronome (Chapter 4/?)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

MARCH 4TH, 1993, 8:42 AM, EST. Angel Dumott-Schunard

"Angelito!" he sings as he throws open the curtains. I stuff my head under the pillow, and contemplate the various methods left to me to convince Nathan that my name is Angel. Just Angel. No variations thereof, thank you very much, sugar. "It's time to get up, cutie; we've got a busy day!" Normally, I'm a morning person, but Nathan's over-enthusiasm—about everything, might I add—occasionally gets to me. But he's right, and he's trying to be sweet, and I think I smell french toast from the next room, so I swing myself out of bed and stretch luxuriously. Nathan looks at me appraisingly, and murmurs, "Damn, girl." I'm wearing the linen pants he bought me and nothing else. He likes when I dress this way for him, at least in bed. I think he likes me to look more butch. I can, however, only comply with his wishes for so long. Today will be difficult enough; I cope with life better when I know I'm stunning. I'm trying to choose between the eggplant velvet and royal blue lycra when Nathan comes back into the room to say that before I make myself lovely for the world, I should eat something.

I must say, I will miss this boy's breakfast-making skills. Not that we're on the verge of a break-up any time soon, it's just...some relationships are obviously destined for a longer shelf life than others. Ours, while fun, and relaxing, and nice, just isn't...It. I hold out hopes of finding someone who looks at me with the exact same loving glance no matter what I'm wearing. Someone who could debate gender politics all night with me, if we wanted to—but wouldn't let his views interfere with how he treated me. And, lastly, someone who will not shrink all of my finery when it's his turn to do the wash. In other words, I hold out aspirations of the Impossible Dream. Can't blame a girl for dreaming, can you? And Nathan, while charming, engaging and sweet, isn't Mr. Right. But he does make the best damn french toast in the city.

"Do you have your social security number?" he asks me, handing me the maple syrup. I nod, and he smiles at me across the table. I wonder if he's nervous. Before we started sleeping together, we had been on our way to dinner out when some guys—kids, really—started up from across the street with the usual catcalls and prepubescent commentary. I ignored it, mostly, as they seemed content to stay on their side of the block, but Nathan was flabbergasted. It took a while for me to explain how lots of people really don't like to see a penis in a dress. Really, really don't like it. He was shocked when I explained that I was even hassled by gay men. In fact, he was so shocked and had been so sweet that I found myself telling him that sometimes people tried to hurt me with their words, and sometimes they tried...in other ways. It's a tough town; sticks and stones are the least of your fucking worries. After I had detailed a number of incidents that had, more often than not, left me in an alley with a bruised face, a ripped dress and a distinct aversion for sitting down for the next few days, Nathan had taken my hand and held it carefully. He kissed my knuckles. He apologized for the assholes of the world. By the time he told me I was lovely, I knew we were going to bed together that night. And then he did something I hadn't expected: he asked me if I'd ever been tested for H.I.V. Truth be told, I was surprised. I hadn't been tested; at the time of my...encounters, I simply hadn't expected to live long enough for it to matter, and once my life had obtained a degree of stability, I thought it best to leave well enough alone. But standing there in the middle of Third Avenue, Nathan's question opened a door. I was happy again, a little older than the teenage drag queen who'd been beaten and raped, a little sturdier and a little firmer in my view that the world was an essentially good place where sometimes shit things happen to good people and you deal with it and move on. If I was sick, I should be taking care of myself. I was kind of attached to my life. And, if I was going to bed this man next to me, it would be only fair. I told him I'd think about it.

Which leads us to today, a few months later, and as I tap out a beat on the dishes I'm washing, Nathan is trying valiantly to locate his health insurance card, to make our long wait at the clinic a little shorter. "Try your extra wallet," I offer from my spot at the sink, and I can here the rumble of opening and closing drawers. I search myself for fear or dread, and find a little, and a little heartache, because somehow, I'm pretty sure what they will tell me. However, life today is good. I have a roof over my head and a stomach full of New York's finest french toast. I will be stunning when we leave this house, and I will still be stunning when we return. I am, I realize, warm water running between my fingers, pretty happy. And that's reason enough to continue being happy. Maybe I'm simplistic. Maybe I'm downright simple. Or maybe I'm just being philosophical about the whole thing. Today, I'm just going to worry about today.


	5. Chapter Five

Title: Metronome (Chapter 5/?)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

MAY 22ND, 1993, 11:43 PM, EST. Maureen Johnson.

You are twenty-two years old and at your college graduation party.

You are twenty-two years old and at your college graduation party.

You are twenty-two years old and at your college graduation party, and you are just drunk and high enough to be narrating the world around you with eerie clarity. You rather enjoy the feeling, the unusual opacity of hearing the story only in your head, the delicious momentary privacy in your otherwise open-door existence.

You seem to remember talking to someone recently; you think it must have been only moments ago, but you're not speaking now and there doesn't seem to be anyone around you.

See Megan over at the beer table, talking to some boy you can't place. Not a theater major, then; you're pretty sure you've seen them all—in one context or another—and you're quite done with that scene. You're tired of explaining how you're not like every other girl they've met from Long Island. Sidle up to Megan and give her a long, lingering kiss on the cheek. She introduces you to the boy—Mark, is it?—and you see that when he looks at you, the tips of his ears burn. You grin, and wonder what it'd be like to fuck him.

Mark tries to ask you the same bullshit questions everyone asks each other when they're young and awkward and in need of conversation, but he catches himself mid-stammer and simply offers you a beer. You take it, just to see if your fingers will touch. He asks you if you're glad to be done with school, if you're excited about the "real world" and he even does the finger quotes with a cute little self-conscious smile. You hear yourself saying that you hope the real world is ready for you. He laughs, a little, enough to make you convinced he didn't fake it, and soon you find yourself explaining that you're staying in the city, that even though you're not a fan of the neighborhood around Hunter, that Hicksville is like Purgatory, and when he mentions Westchester, you know he understands. You realize your beer is almost empty, that he has put his down somewhere and is fiddling with something in his hands, something big enough to broken in the hubbub of partying newly-graduates. A camera? You can't do more than point and cock an eyebrow at him, but it's enough to get the ears burning again. You give him what you hope is a soft smile, and ask about him.

When Mark speaks, his hands—or hand-and-camera—draw circles in the air around him. He's telling you some story about how he and three friends are moving in together—something about the East Village, and a loft, and the fundamental rules of cinematography, and you nod and watch his hands. You are transfixed by them, tapered and strong-looking, how they seem to be pushing him out of his own narrative. How strange, you think, watching him run his fingers through his hair and smile through some story of a cat on the D train and his friend Roger, how odd. He exists on the fringe of his own life story. He seems to be happy—or happy enough—on the outside looking in. He's a peripheral being, not a tertiary character but a narrator, an other. How foreign to you he is, how unlike your desires his must be. The diva rep, you think hazily, doesn't come from nowhere. You like to be surrounded by people, you like the attention on you because worrying about your next watched move means you spend less time looking in. Less contemplation, less solitude. You know yourself well enough to know you don't need to spend more time with yourself than necessary. Enough that other people judge you, enough that you give them something to think and feel.

Mark ducks his head when you suddenly step closer. You want to see his face better, this teller of tales, this voice, this sight. You tell him you're sorry if you're not good company, that you're a little distracted by everything. He looks almost relieved and says he has enjoyed talking very much, and that he wouldn't just say that. At the look on your face he laughs and admits that he would, but he isn't. You wonder what it would be like to kiss him. He pushes a button on his camera and raises it toward you, trains it on you. You ask if he wants you to smile. He tells you he wants you to do whatever you want to do. He affectionately calls the camera his memory, leans out from behind the viewfinder and adds quietly that he wouldn't forget you, anyway. And all you can do is half-grin at him, through a layer of glass and plastic, and wonder what stories he'll tell about you, hope you'll be a character in his report.


	6. Chapter Six

Title: Metronome (Chapter 6/?)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

JULY 16TH, 1995, 4:02 PM, EST. Mimi Marquez.

The first thing that surprised her about the whole thing was that the coffee was actually pretty good. You'd think that would break some sort of cardinal rule of support groups, but she knew good coffee—or at least not-crap coffee—when she tasted it.

At least, she decided, she would have something to focus on if this whole thing turned out to be as boring and pointless as she expected. This wasn't really her scene, but Annie had suggested—strongly—that she go, and Annie had the distinct advantages that went along with being a state-appointed case worker: for the five weeks and four days, until the big one-eight, she could withhold services. Like AZT, and the doughnuts she always snuck into her office when Mimi came for her nine o'clock appointment. As she put it Mimi, "Look, hon, I'll be honest with you: things can be hard or they can be harder." And, at least for the month and a half until she was legally old enough to get the fuck of Social Services, she'd opted for coffee and doughnuts over none.

And now that there was something edible in her hand and the crap fan in the corner was finally kicking in, she found that she could concentrate enough to really look around. Some people were talking softly to each other from their separate hard plastic chairs, and some, like her, were just sitting. Waiting for this to begin and perhaps, like her, waiting for it to end. Directly across from her, the dress that that—boy?—was wearing was gorgeous. Fucking hot, and red was the perfect color for him. When he stood to greet someone who had just come in, she could tell that he could have filled out the back a bit more. He didn't have too much of an ass. Not a _boriqua_ baby like her, she thought, almost smugly.

And now, as if by unspoken signal, everyone was gathering in their seats. The man in the blue shirt introduced himself as Paul, and then they went around in the circle, saying their names. Mimi tried to concentrate, but she found herself wondering if these people were giving their real names. If she had to give her real name. And even as she could feel herself mentally drifting away, she wondered about her name, and about death certificates, and obituaries, and whether they were forced to print your formal name. Because that would really suck. There might be a piece of paper somewhere in her mother's apartment that remembered how Maria Josefina Esperanza Marquez had been born almost eighteen years ago, but she had been Mimi since before her first full day alive. They should let you put whatever the fuck you want on the shit that follows you after death. But then again, that could get complicated, seeing as how you were dead and couldn't really choose...

"Mimi," she said suddenly, realizing it was her turn. "I'm Mimi."

And as she dove back into her coffee cup, she caught the cute boy in the dress—she was sure now, as she caught sight of an adam's apple—smiling at her. Not the sleazy smile she was used to catching from men as they stared, but then again, Mimi was willing to guess that she wasn't his type. She could feel herself smiling back, just a little bit.

And now Paul was signaling them to begin. Begin what? Until—shit, that was creepy—almost everyone was chanting together softly. Something about the "now", and forgetting regret. This was fucking cheesy. Annie better be serving up double doughnuts when next they met. Although, if she thought about it, this could be worse. They could be moaning and wailing about the fucking tragedy of their situation. Mimi had no patience for that bullshit. Get a clue, people: life's going to find every possible way of fucking you over, so deal with it and move on. Or, as Paul and his legion of chanters were saying, life's yours to miss. Okay, she sighed. This was okay.

She couldn't bring herself to focus too much while people spoke—she heard snatches of what they were saying, and she was aware of Paul's deep voice, which, she was willing to concede, might be comforting, if that's what you were looking for. When the meeting was ready to end, Paul signaled them to begin the sketchy chant thing again, and to her surprise, Mimi was able to follow a few of the verses. She hummed the parts she didn't know yet.

Okay, so most of this whole enforced-pseudo-group-therapy stuff was still a big pile of _mierda_, but since she had to go somewhere, it would have to do. Annie had made it very clear that the next try after this would be an in-hospital group at Mount Sinai, and Mimi had made it equally clear that she would disappear back into the _barrio_—or somewhere just as difficult to track her as Spanish Harlem was—in a heartbeat, rather than be forced to a hospital for any duration of time. So this place would have to do. For now, at least, Mimi reminded herself. Just for the next few weeks. Or maybe once in a while, you know, even after, once she was free of Annie and her sugary clutches, once she was free to be born to be bad again, once she was living on her own terms. Shit, at least it was a place to get some good coffee.


	7. Chapter Seven

Title: Metronome (Chapter 7/?)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

DECEMBER 19TH, 1995, 10:37 AM, EST. Benjamin Coffin III.

I watch Benny struggling with the duct tape, kneeling on the floor with the last big batch of boxes. The tape is mine, and some part of me wants to explain to him that it'd be faster to cut it than try to rip it, but I don't. I just lean back into the couch and run my fingers through Maureen's hair. She's pretending to read a book, but I can feel her body so rigid with rage that I know the charade won't last for long. Benny has moved on to attempting to rip the tape with his teeth. I feel like he's a poster child for those of us—rare though they may be—who leave the squalor of an artist's life behind. Then again, maybe that works both ways: careful, boho boys and girls; if you don't know how to properly operate duct tape, you too may end up as a loser sell-out who abandons his friends. But even as I think that, even as I try to massage a little of the tension out of Maureen's neck, I don't quite agree.

"Benny," I finally say, quietly, wondering if my voice sounds as tired to everyone else as it does to me. "There." And I point to the table behind him, where I'd left the scissors for him earlier. Benny grabs them and beams at me, like by showing him where the goddamn scissors are, I've granted some sort of approval about this whole enterprise. I can hear Maureen's exaggerated exhale, and she gets up and stalks to the bathroom. The door slams behind her; I don't even pretend to act surprised.

I try to remember when life started, well, if not falling apart, at least leaking at the seams. We'd all known that Benny was taking business classes at Lehman. He'd said they'd help him get a job for a real production studio, so he could quit the gophering and the catering jobs we all knew he hated so much. It was pretty funny to come home at night after a long day of filming and see him hunched over at our shitty kitchen table, struggling with a math problem. Sometimes he followed Collins around with random abstract ethics questions. It was odd, and it probably annoyed the shit out of Collins, but then he'd always had extra patience for Benny. He once told me that Benny was still looking for himself. We're all still looking for ourselves, I'd responded. Yeah, Collins had replied, nodding, but at least we have a pretty good idea where to look.

At any rate, pretty soon Benny had landed himself a new job—short term, project-oriented only stuff, but it was for a tiny independent recording label in Harlem. I've never seen him so excited. And soon after, he'd even gotten himself a day job with some real estate manager. We didn't see him as much after that, but when we did, he was always exhausted and smiling. And, of course, we were glad to have someone around who was making some steady flow. My project du jour was going well and pennilessly, as was Maureen's, neither of which surprised anyone, and we'd all been screening messages from some dude at Columbia who sounded progressively pissier. We weren't sure Collins would be employed much longer. And then, of course, there was Roger. Roger whose band was finally landing gigs, Roger who had started bringing home a skinny little thing with red hair named April on quite a regular basis, Roger who started acting spacey and was always telling us he was broke. Nobody gave Benny as much shit about his constant studying, not even Maureen, who told him that if he went to work for The Establishment, she'd never forgive him. No, Roger's needling was always a little lower-key. A comment, a dry bark of a laugh before he swigged a beer and swaggered away. Somehow, those comments sounded a little edged, a little cruel, and I think they cut a little deeper than my girlfriend's rants ever did.

That swagger makes an appearance now, or it would, if Roger could figure out the Earth's proper equilibrium. He sways in the doorway, rubs his eyes and clearly tries to make sense out of the boxes and random articles of clothing laying about.

"You're up early," I say, keeping my tone as neutral as possible. Roger, never an early riser, has recently taken to sleeping until three or four in the afternoon. Then again, I've heard him come in at five in the morning, so I suppose that makes sense. And I have to admit to myself that these past few weeks, it's been easier that way. That way we only see each other a few hours a day. Another recent Roger development: he's stopped being nearly so pleasant when he's awake.

"Wanted to see me off, right, dude?" Benny asks, with a cheery tone. I think he wants to leave us all on good terms, and I admire that. Benny may be a dipshit at times, but he's as good natured as a Labrador, and at times, just as persistent in his mission to make you like him.

Roger just rubs his eyes. "It's fucking cold in here." Benny looks a little confused, because it's certainly been a lot colder recently than it is today. I look at Roger more closely, shivering in his tee shirt and jeans. Must have crashed still clothed.

"Go put on a sweatshirt," I say quietly, and he stares at me for a minute before wordlessly returning to his room. Maureen emerges from the bathroom and plunks back down next to me on the couch. She glares for a minute at Benny, who obviously waited until the last minute to back those beloved business textbooks of his. He's trying to fit them into one of the smaller boxes. He's moving into his girlfriend's house—although he'd called it her "place" when he first told us. It wasn't until he mentioned Connecticut that we started to wonder what the fuck was going on, exactly. I could only remember meeting Alison once, when Benny brought her to one of Roger's shows with the Well Hungarians. She looked like the girls I'd grown up with. No, not even—she was too W.A.S.P. for that. White bread, Maureen had whispered, and I think she was seeing ghosts of the past too. Roger, when he'd finally found us in the crowd, was plastered. When introduced, he'd said, "Nice to meet you, Muffy," and that was Alison's new name, like it or not. I think the only one to be truly kind to her was Collins, who made small talk with her all throughout the show, through which she fidgeted and grimaced. Apparently, not her kind of music.

Roger's door re-opens, and April slips out, wrapped in his nasty blue blanket. She just stands next to the couch for a moment, vacantly, before she sits abruptly. I can feel Maureen watching her, as Roger emerges as well, with that same vacant expression. I wish he'd lay off the fucking drugs for a while. What was it last night, buddy, I ask him in my head. Blow again, with pot-and-beer chasers? Ecstasy and tequila? I'm not the tight-ass he makes me out to be, but I do enjoy a few chemical-free days here and there. Call me old fashioned.

Maureen shifts her weight ever so slightly into me. I wonder if she's being cuddly or just trying to watch our intrepid stoned duo more closely. I don't know exactly what Maureen has against April, but something in her seems tenser whenever the two of them are together—especially in post-drug-haze moments such as this one. Maybe it's a female thing, because the rest of us have tried to make April as comfortable as possible with our company. Still, I look at April's vacuous gaze and have to suppress a shudder. Something is wrong here. I think maybe what we've been telling each other and ourselves—about Roger's increasing absence, and his constantly hung-over behavior, and his sudden partiality to mood swings that are way more severe than his normally manic personality provides—maybe that's horse crap. Maybe he and I need to talk.

There's a key in the door and Collins comes in, looking a little weary as he unwraps his scarf. He does, however, grin when he holds up the white paper bag.

"Bagels!" he announces, smiling at us all, but especially at Benny. "A farewell breakfast for our friend." And when I rise and dig out the cream cheese I have carefully hidden in the refrigerator, the wattage of Benny's smile could power Brooklyn. Maureen also stands and goes to place a kiss on Collins' cheek; he brings out something tender in her, at least when they're not off destroying property.

"I'll make some tea. Who wants?" she asks, addressing us all, which I think is her way of reaching out to us. That's my girl. She could be a good Jewish wife yet, if it weren't for the shiksa thing—when in doubt, when in trouble, when feeling disconnected or worried or helpless: feed. I raise my hand enthusiastically, and she wraps her arms around me from behind before putting the kettle on. I twist in her grasp to plant a kiss on her cheek. I think she's more upset than she lets on about Benny moving out; I think she feels a little unstable these days. I know I should be more attentive. It's just been hard, because I've been more worried about Roger and Collins and even about the sell-out himself. Here he is, folks: Mark Cohen, mother hen. I kiss Maureen again, on the lips this time. She smiles at me and turns her attention to setting up mugs. Benny's digging though the bagel bag like a kid on Christmas, and Collins is standing next to Maureen, searching for clean plates. It is almost the picture of a happy family, the happy family we've been. But we're missing something...

Roger. Who has finally figured out that couches are for sitting, and is next to April, not really sitting together, just sitting side-by-side. My hands itch for my camera, and I know I could loop a minute or so clip of them and call it "The Bus Stop" and it would be brilliant. The smell of fresh bagels—"Holy shit, they're still warm!" laughs Benny, slapping Collins on the arm—is enticing, but Roger and April don't seem much to notice. Finally, he takes her hand in his, and for a moment, they are the happy couple they were months ago, when Roger first introduced us, his chest a little puffed up with happiness and pride. Then April leans over and whispers something in his ear. Roger's eyes seem to gleam dully and then he's pushed off the sofa and grabbed his leather jacket from the peg by the door. "I'll be back in a few," he mutters to me as he passes by me on the way to the door. "I'm gone by noon, so make sure you're here to say goodbye!" calls Benny, but I'm not even sure Roger heard. I sigh. A filmmaker lives for moments, encapsulations, and when they're gone or missing, he'll feel...off. Believe me.

Suddenly, there's a plate in my hand with a bagel on it—salt, my favorite—and Benny grins at me, and I will myself to forget Roger's strange behavior and just enjoy a good nosh with my friends. Who knows when next we'll all eat together like this, family-style around our crowded and cluttered kitchen table. I fetch my camera from my room and film the scene in front of me for a moment: Collins mock-seriously asking Benny if they have bagels in Connecticut, Maureen, steaming tea in hand, almost tripping over an unmarked box, and screeching as she punches Benny in the arm for leaving his shit all over, Benny laughing and trying to answer the two of them at once, April furrowing her brow as she concentrates on making the cream cheese go from knife to bagel. Roger's absence is palpable, but I refuse to pay it any mind. There will be, I'm afraid, plenty of time and opportunities. Right now, eating with my soon-to-be spread out family will be enough.


	8. Chapter Eight

Title: Metronome (Chapter 8/?)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

APRIL 30TH, 1996, 1:19 PM, EST. April MacArthur.

It isn't exactly like telling himself to breathe. He'd written it that way in scripts, having recognized the phrase in novels and poetry and—though he wants desperately to ignore the very notion—in Roger's songs, but in truth, it doesn't feel like that. It's more of a reflex, a sudden realization that his chest is expanding as he inhales more deeply. In the end, he thinks, the body will save us more than the mind. Or, he amends, thinking of last week's trip to the clinic, the amber vial of AZT, maybe just his body.

He yawns. Then again, maybe not, he thinks; he has not slept very well in a long time. He wipes the counter with what vaguely resembles a sponge, moving the stack of Freud and Plato to the accumulation of boxes. Collins had pulled him aside just yesterday: "Look, Mark, I can still pull out of this. Or...I can tell them that I need extra time before I come up. I just don't want this to be too much. For any of you." Mark heard him as if through a fog, almost quirking his eyebrows as if to say _how can this not be too much?_ But he had heard himself speaking, reassuring Collins in a voice that only wavered a little bit, explaining that they'd find a way, assuring his friend that Massachusetts wasn't too far, if they ever really needed him, reminding him that they were happy for him. Truth be told, he is scared shitless. No, correction, he thinks, acknowledging this to himself: he wishes he could be scared shitless. All he can feel right now is the subtle throbbing of an impending migraine.

He wishes he could avoid the bathroom, but industrial lofts are not built with the spatial needs of future inhabitants in mind. Besides, he needs Advil, especially if Maureen chooses tonight for their next spectacular fight. And there it is, right there in the medical cabinet, right where the razors used to be, before Roger threw them at the walls and Mark threw them all out. On the other side of the condom box, which Mark replaced last week. He knows he and Maureen hadn't used them all, knows Collins has been too busy planning the move, knows Roger hasn't done anything...since. He wishes he could feel anger, betrayal, daytime-soap-like dramatics, wishes he could floor Maureen with his own righteous fury. Instead, all he can feel is a twist in his gut, that flash of cold fear when he found the almost-empty box: what if, in her desire not to get caught, she went without, what if she fucks someone without protection, what if she gets sick...He looks down at the toilet, wonders if he'll throw up at the thought.

And, of course, he still loves her. He knows his own conduct recently has not been ideal. But, if anything remains from that impossible night that doesn't make him dizzy, that doesn't make him notice his own chest expanding, it is this: after coming home early from filming for a reason he simply can't remember, after wondering what that coppery smell in the loft was, after the discovery, after pulling Roger (high as a fucking kite, he can't help remembering) off of the bloody tile, after holding him onto the couch for hours while Collins called the hospital and attempted to clean the bathroom, after Roger, coming down from what had turned into a nightmare trip, punched him in the chest and tried to attack the man who came for...who came from EMS, after wrestling Roger out of his stained clothes and into bed, hearing Collins explain everything to the just-returned Maureen, after looking up and writing down the number of every clinic in the five boroughs, he remembers sitting on the couch. He remembers pushing his head into his hands, pushing up his glasses, rubbing his eyes. And he remembers Maureen's soft touch, her hand cool on his neck. Her face streaked with tears, her eyes focused on his face. "Mark," she had quavered, her voice going up, like a question, "it's okay." She swallowed, forced her panic down long enough to pull him closer. "Shh...honey, shh...it's okay." And as he clung to her, gasping, trying not to shake with sobs, he felt her shuddering too, felt them crying together, arms around each other, letting loose in a way he didn't know how to do with anyone else. It hadn't been redemptive, it hadn't made anything a damn bit better—but it was a moment of release, and even now, a full twenty-eight days later, he savors it.

Because he knows he is tottering on the edge now. If the first day was bad, then the second day, wherein, he can't help narrating to himself, the filmmaker schlepped all over, trying to find someone who could tell him about cheap rehabs, was pretty shitty too. Apparently, the waiting lists are pretty long. Sure, thanks, he'd love to put his name on a list, no, he didn't really think it could wait three months, no, he didn't have insurance, no, the patient in question didn't either, yes, he'd be sure to have a nice day. This while Collins spent the day on the phone, arranging an AIDS test for Roger, who slept, while Maureen cleaned everything sharp out of his room. A real team effort.

Days have turned into battles, and nights are more of the same. Until now, he has been able to trade shifts with Collins, shifts spent watching Roger punch the wall in the throes of withdrawal agonies, blocking Roger from buying a fix, attempting to get Roger to eat something, forcing Roger, sometimes physically, to take his AZT, and generally trying to prevent Roger from hurting himself or others. But Collins' life is in boxes around them, ready to be driven to MIT on the ninth. There is unspoken agreement against leaving Maureen alone in the loft with withdrawal-mode-Roger, for several reasons, and recently she has been more than happy to make her assistance equivalent to her absence. Mark, in what he now regards as one of the lower moments of the past month, even called Benny, leaving a bumbling explanation of the situation on the only corporate answering machine he could reach. Benny, for his part, had sent flowers. So out of fucking touch it hurt. But then again, he thinks grimly, they can't all have the distinction of being the one to catch Roger using heroin, of finally seeing the two of them sharing needles, of now spending hours at a time watching Roger shiver and gnash his teeth, pulling on rubber gloves before cleaning up the vomit laced through with blood.

Life is about pushing limits, Maureen has told him time and again. This is what drives her art—the need to push further, to test, to see how much can be taken and then transcend it. But he cannot help feel that maybe he is slowly reaching his limit, or—far, far worse—that he has no limit, that the numbness he feels has knows no bounds and can continue to grow exponentially until he is gone. He is so tired of feeling impotent, of feeling that he can't control a single factor in the entire universe. He is tired of knowing that all his girlfriend wants is attention he cannot give her, tired of yelling and whining and huffing out of the kitchen, tired of apologizing and not apologizing and waiting until she's asleep to cover her hairline in kisses. He is tired of suddenly remembering, at random moments of the day, that death has occurred in the place he lives. He's tired of being angry about that too, tired of not knowing whether it's appropriate to be devastated or pissed the fuck off. He's tired of Collins' fatigue, tired of watching the poor man struggle with the notion that his own personal tragedy has expanded, tired of not having anything with which to comfort Collins. And he is damn tired of Roger. He is tired of the drugs that have made Roger sick but made him feel good, and he is tired of the drugs that make Roger sick and make him feel like shit. He is tired of the restless noises at all hours of the night, he is tired of the daytime lethargy, and he is damn tired of being told to fuck off. He is tired of feeling guilty that it took a tragedy to get him to take drastic action. Most of all, though, he is tired of missing Roger. His Roger, the Roger who threw hot dog buns at Maureen when they went shopping and dragged Mark to jazz clubs on his birthday and rolled Collins joints with smiley-face papers. The Roger who had cared, who had not shuffled through life in a narcotic dream. That Roger had been pretty damn important to Mark, and he was tired of feeling achy inside from his loss.

He is tired of being tired. He hears scraping noises from the bedroom, and stands up, wearily, to go investigate. It is easier to be numb, he thinks. Probably a better way to save energy. He does wish, a little wistfully, that he could sleep.


	9. Chapter Nine

Title: Metronome (Chapter 9/?)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

OCTOBER 21ST, 1996, 9:43 PM, EST. Joanne Jefferson.

This wasn't the club Maureen had initially intended to grace with her presence. She had, in fact, been halfway to this cheap place she knew on Sullivan Street. But something had changed her mind. She wasn't ready to admit what it was—barely to herself, never to anyone else. It was just a mental picture of what the club would like that had struck her as she walked. Dark and crowded and smoky. Bodies crammed up next to each other. And she remembered the past few months, remembered Roger slamming doors and fists and glasses in pain and anger, remembered Mark pushing her into the bedroom and somehow managing to lock her inside, fearful of Roger's anger, of his own inability to protect her on those days when it got really bad, so bad that Mark would come into the room later that night with the lights already out, hiding a bruise or his tears. And suddenly...the thought of rubbing up against strange men wasn't so appealing. Maybe, she thought, it's just survival instinct. I want to make sure that I'm up against someone who I have half a chance of beating if it came to blows. What a fucking romantic I am.

This is how she had come to Henrietta Hudson's, and although it wasn't her first time there, it was the first time she didn't think about it consciously, the first time she wasn't an actress there playing a part. She was just Maureen tonight. That would have to be enough. And for most of these women, it was. Maureen certainly wasn't a stranger to women's bodies—she had been a fucking theater major, for Christ sake—and all she planned on doing here was gettin' down and makin' out. If somebody was attractive enough to excite her, sex was certainly an option. The eternal option, she thought, almost grinning. It was a relief, really, to finally be the one in control. Her career depended on the whims and whimsies of hundreds of irrelevant and unimportant people—the clerk who issued her a protest permit, the cop who chose not to arrest her, the people who did, but more often didn't, stick around to actually watch and listen. Her home life—well, that was certainly something she couldn't control. Living with a barely-recovering junkie and a boyfriend who had somehow lost himself inside his own skin. She missed Collins, who had left almost five months ago. He had always been able to make her feel that life wasn't just cruise control. Tonight she would settle for choosing her lover.

There isn't much dancing at a place as crowded as Henrietta's, but there is always some small corner where women mould themselves into each other's bodies. The music was nothing to speak of, but it would do. Maureen pried herself away from the fabulous redhead who was not-too-subtly grinding her thigh in between Maureen's in time to the music. "Be back in a flash, honey. I need a drink." And with that, Maureen batted her eyelashes and sauntered to the bar. Her money was damp with sweat, and she caught more than one appraising glance as she pulled it out of her bra—the one problem with those leather pants was the lack of pockets. The bartender—full of piercings, lewd comments and quick smiles for her customers, winked at Maureen. She looks so young, Maureen thought. She watched the young woman pass by again. She's probably just my age. And turning quickly to escape that thought, she pushed off the bar and right into the solid frame of another woman.

"Whoa, excuse me," said the owner of that rather firm arm. And that is how Maureen met Joanne, who had accepted her light apology and even offered Maureen a seat at her table. "So you don't have to deal with running into someone tougher than me," she said to Maureen, who grinned. "Besides, I'm damn sick of celebrating alone. Is forty-five minutes sufficient time to consider yourself stood up?"

"More than. What are we celebrating?" asked Maureen innocently, although it wasn't the first question that came to mind. And so Joanne explained that she was a litigator who had had a fairly decisive win earlier in the day. When Maureen commented off-handedly that the only thing she understood about the law was that it wasn't particularly amenable to performing artists, Joanne had leaned back and laughed—a hearty, natural sound. Maureen, who had meant the comment seriously, found herself giggling. What was going on here?

"Were you really waiting for someone, or is that just a line you feed all the girls?" asked Maureen, leaning forward and looking up through her eyelashes coquettishly.

"I don't feed lines," said Joanne, and that had been the end of that. Maureen had never gotten a response so sure and so final. Joanne's words had been as firm as they were swift to respond, and Maureen didn't doubt they were true.

Henrietta Hudson's is a great place to hang out, a great place to drink, a great place to oogle beautiful women. It is not a great place to speak quietly, to observe nuance, to get to know someone new. Joanne checked her watch.

"They're not gonna show. Would you like to get some coffee?" And Maureen, who had been asked to go a lot of places after meeting people in bars, realized that she had never once gone out afterwards for coffee. She accepted immediately.

"This is why I couldn't live anywhere else," laughed Maureen. "Who knows when you'll need a mocha—or two—at two am?"

"You're shitting me. It's not that late."

"No," admitted Maureen, "not quite. But one forty-five is pretty close." She giggled as Joanne's eyebrows shot up and her expression changed from shock to mock-despair.

"Well, shit. There go my hopes of scoring two incredibly productive days in one week. But, oh well, right?"

"Right!" agreed Maureen, hoping she could successfully pull off the switch from little-girl voice to seductive tone. It was a necessary part of the hunt. "Celebrating is as important as winning a victory in the first place." She batted her eyes. Joanne didn't look particularly woo-ed. This was fucking harder than she'd bargained for.

"So," said Joanne, adjusting herself in her chair. "You're a performance artist, whatever that means. You're from Long Island, about which I am sworn to absolute secrecy. You like mochas—a lot. You live downtown. What else, Maureen? Tell me something interesting." Maureen felt, for one moment, like she was on the witness stand, and she bristled, tossing her hair, making sure her little sniff was audible. But the next moment, she looked at Joanne hard, leaned back a little—bad fucking habit to pick up from a filmmaker boyfriend—and saw how kindly Joanne was smiling at her, how seriously she could take herself. This was so different from what Maureen had been looking for tonight. This wasn't a one-night fuck; she didn't know if Joanne even knew how to do that, how to let it all go that way. Maureen needed to be able to let it all go. And yet...she just looked so _solid_. So unshakable. So stable. Maybe this was what she'd come out tonight looking for, after all.


	10. Chapter Ten

Title: Metronome (Chapter 10/10)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

Author's Note: It's been fun, but we've rapidly approached the beginning of the play, and it's time to move on. My two reviewers, you've been very supportive and I thank you. The best of luck and inspiration to you all. Thanks for reading.

NOVEMBER 29TH, 1996, 6:15 PM, EST. 11th and Avenue B

It was strange, he thought, how if you caught the city at the right moment, it seemed to breathe. The thought itself was so clichéd he almost laughed, but at that exact moment, the gusts of air the city channeled into its many incidental wind tunnels came in bursts down the avenue, whooshing around his ears. He leaned back into the chain-link. It smelled like snow was coming, and he didn't want to be here all night if it did. The streetlamp flickered, and Angel looked up from the plastic tub. He stopped his drumming to swipe what in truth were someone else's bangs out of his eyes and glance behind him, through the fence and into the lot, which, he'd noticed, was getting more and more crowded as the days passed. Even the tents were ragged. Fucking Giuliani.

There was some commotion—even for New York, that was a damn _commotion_—across the way, a dealer slapping the living shit out of a junkie whose hands had gotten too close to those deep leather pockets. A boy—no, a young man—with a camera, edging away from the scene he'd just gotten on film. The news? Hanging out here? Oh—no, just a curious, camera-laden native. Couldn't be a tourist; he seemed to know where he was. A pair of sexy fishnets flashed by Angel's eyes and he glanced up at that chica he kept running into at Life Support. She was making good time in those stilettos, and she didn't look quite right as she glanced at her watch, but she caught his eyes as she turned into the lot and smiled at him. He smiled back. Maybe one day they'd really introduce themselves, because for the life of him he couldn't remember her name. Maybe New York was getting to him. The boy with the camera slunk past, talking to himself. Across the way, two women spoke in loud voices—something about construction sites and mike plugs. He couldn't be bothered; his hands were starting to chap. He wondered if he had enough change in his hat to snag dinner and a pair of gloves. As if reading his mind, Loretta, sassy, angry and probably hungry, lumbered out of the lot, where she'd been sitting in one of the rattier tents. She didn't even say anything, just approached meanderingly and eyed Angel, who grinned.

"Hi, Loretta, sweetheart. How are you doing today, sugar?"

"Fuck you," was the ever-pleasant reply.

"I was just on my way to grab something to eat, but I'd really rather not dine alone," continued Angel, not missing a beat. "In fact, I've spent the whole damn day here, all by my lonesome, no one to talk to, beating these poor fingers to the bone, and I'd be so happy if you'd keep me company that I'll pay for dinner." Nothing. "For both of us, honey."

Loretta squinted. "How much you make today?"

"Um..." and Angel rubbed his hands together to awaken circulation before attempting to sift through the change. "At least four dollars. More than enough for a meager dinner for two." And Loretta nodded, agreeing. He picked up the tub and considered stashing it somewhere instead of dragging it all around, but realized there simply wasn't a chance it would still be there in the morning. During his brief consideration, however, he did notice a pile of pipes lying around. "Maybe they've finally figured out that lead is not good for growing bodies," he mused tightly. "Those would make a good all-day arts-and-crafts project, if tomorrow's a slow day. What do you think, sugar? Something to brighten up this neighborhood with a little holiday cheer?"

Loretta didn't answer; she seemed to be listening to something Angel couldn't hear. Or, she was strung out again, and he was romanticizing a dirty, mean existence impulsively. Another gentle blast of wind; the city breathing. The feeling that something was coming...a feeling of impending...something. Oh, Angel, give it up, sweetie. Try to hold on to your marbles before the disease eats them up too. But Loretta was suddenly focused on him, looking intently, more aware than he'd ever seen her. Maybe something was on its way. Maybe it was just the holidays that were messing with his mind. The whistling of air between old buildings; it was cold and they were both hungry. Angel grasped his tub more tightly and smiled at Loretta, even as the streetlight flickered back on and the lot flooded orange. He didn't believe in signs, but maybe inexplicably his spirits lifted. He was okay, for now. He looked at the sky, grinned wider.

"Hey, it's beginning to snow!"

Fin.


End file.
